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Authors: Glenn Ickler
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tonight.”
“I’ve got plenty of time to write in the morning,” I said.
“And we don’t print photos anymore,” Al said. “You’ve maybe heard of digital photography?”
“Oh, of course,” he said. “Silly me.”
“I must confess that I’m surprised to see you in a Vulcan costume,” I said.
“You shouldn’t be,” Carlson said. “I was a member of the Krewe three years ago. I still love to put on the suit when there’s a party.”
“Been to many parties this week?” Al asked.
“Actually, I dressed up for the Queen of Snows dance Wednesday night,” Carlson said. “Had a ball, if you’ll pardon the pun.” Again he flashed the perfect row of teeth.
“Did you go along with the crowd afterward?” I asked.
Carlson realized that the question was loaded. “If you mean the crowd that went to O’Halloran’s, the answer is no,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I decided it was time to pack it in, so I went home.”
“How late was it?” I asked.
“Late enough,” Carlson said, pushing back the chair and rising. “It’s been nice talking to you boys. If you have any questions in the morning, don’t hesitate to call. Have a good night.”
“You, too,” Al and I said in unison as he walked away.
“What an asshole,” Al said when Carlson was out of earshot. “Do you think he could be the extra Vulcan that one of your Kates saw in O’Halloran’s?”
“Anything is possible,” I said. “But I have no idea what his motive for killing Lee-Ann might be.”
“He could have picked her up at O’Halloran’s, took her somewhere and tried to screw her, and got rough when she wouldn’t put out.”
“That’s possible. But we won’t know whether she was sexually assaulted until we hear the ME’s report on Monday. Meanwhile, I’ll put him on my list of suspects.”
Britney was standing beside us. “Another round, gentlemen?”
“No thanks, just the check,” Al said.
“But thanks for calling us gentlemen,” I said. “Our last visitor thought we were underage.” I added an extra dollar to my share of the tip.
Chapter Nine
Autopsy-turvy
When I walked into the lobby of the Daily Dispatch building a few minutes before 8:00 a.m. on Monday, I heard loud male voices and saw a man waving a snub-nosed pistol in front of Harry, our security guard. The security desk was the first thing a visitor encountered when entering our building, and unless one wore an ID tag, one must be identified and tell Harry what department one wants to visit.
The man waving the pistol was shouting something about not giving a shit about the sign saying no firearms allowed in this building. “This gun is the whole purpose of my fucking visit,” he yelled.
My first thought was to go back outside and call 911, but I quickly recognized the gun waver from the rear, which was as wide as my grandmother’s antique wash tub. His name was Sean Fitzpatrick, and he was the head of an organization called the League of Effective Gun Owners, otherwise known as LEGO. I thought this acronym was extremely appropriate because the members of LEGO thought of their guns as playthings.
Fitzpatrick was in his middle fifties, with a gleaming bald head, a bulbous red nose and a belly that hung far over his belt as a result of absorbing countless kegs of beer. He was a frequent writer of letters to the editor opposing any and all gun laws, and an occasional indignant visitor to the newsroom when a story about gun control pissed him off. This was the first time I’d seen him carry a weapon into the building.
I hustled up alongside him. “Hey, Sean, what’s going on?” I said. “How come you’re giving Frank a hard time?”
“I’m trying to explain to this donkey that I’m here to talk about this gun,” Sean said. “I want to show it to the asshole who wrote that anti-gun editorial in Sunday’s paper and the other asshole that drew the stupid cartoon that went with it.”
“Frank’s just doing
“I’ve got plenty of time to write in the morning,” I said.
“And we don’t print photos anymore,” Al said. “You’ve maybe heard of digital photography?”
“Oh, of course,” he said. “Silly me.”
“I must confess that I’m surprised to see you in a Vulcan costume,” I said.
“You shouldn’t be,” Carlson said. “I was a member of the Krewe three years ago. I still love to put on the suit when there’s a party.”
“Been to many parties this week?” Al asked.
“Actually, I dressed up for the Queen of Snows dance Wednesday night,” Carlson said. “Had a ball, if you’ll pardon the pun.” Again he flashed the perfect row of teeth.
“Did you go along with the crowd afterward?” I asked.
Carlson realized that the question was loaded. “If you mean the crowd that went to O’Halloran’s, the answer is no,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I decided it was time to pack it in, so I went home.”
“How late was it?” I asked.
“Late enough,” Carlson said, pushing back the chair and rising. “It’s been nice talking to you boys. If you have any questions in the morning, don’t hesitate to call. Have a good night.”
“You, too,” Al and I said in unison as he walked away.
“What an asshole,” Al said when Carlson was out of earshot. “Do you think he could be the extra Vulcan that one of your Kates saw in O’Halloran’s?”
“Anything is possible,” I said. “But I have no idea what his motive for killing Lee-Ann might be.”
“He could have picked her up at O’Halloran’s, took her somewhere and tried to screw her, and got rough when she wouldn’t put out.”
“That’s possible. But we won’t know whether she was sexually assaulted until we hear the ME’s report on Monday. Meanwhile, I’ll put him on my list of suspects.”
Britney was standing beside us. “Another round, gentlemen?”
“No thanks, just the check,” Al said.
“But thanks for calling us gentlemen,” I said. “Our last visitor thought we were underage.” I added an extra dollar to my share of the tip.
Chapter Nine
Autopsy-turvy
When I walked into the lobby of the Daily Dispatch building a few minutes before 8:00 a.m. on Monday, I heard loud male voices and saw a man waving a snub-nosed pistol in front of Harry, our security guard. The security desk was the first thing a visitor encountered when entering our building, and unless one wore an ID tag, one must be identified and tell Harry what department one wants to visit.
The man waving the pistol was shouting something about not giving a shit about the sign saying no firearms allowed in this building. “This gun is the whole purpose of my fucking visit,” he yelled.
My first thought was to go back outside and call 911, but I quickly recognized the gun waver from the rear, which was as wide as my grandmother’s antique wash tub. His name was Sean Fitzpatrick, and he was the head of an organization called the League of Effective Gun Owners, otherwise known as LEGO. I thought this acronym was extremely appropriate because the members of LEGO thought of their guns as playthings.
Fitzpatrick was in his middle fifties, with a gleaming bald head, a bulbous red nose and a belly that hung far over his belt as a result of absorbing countless kegs of beer. He was a frequent writer of letters to the editor opposing any and all gun laws, and an occasional indignant visitor to the newsroom when a story about gun control pissed him off. This was the first time I’d seen him carry a weapon into the building.
I hustled up alongside him. “Hey, Sean, what’s going on?” I said. “How come you’re giving Frank a hard time?”
“I’m trying to explain to this donkey that I’m here to talk about this gun,” Sean said. “I want to show it to the asshole who wrote that anti-gun editorial in Sunday’s paper and the other asshole that drew the stupid cartoon that went with it.”
“Frank’s just doing
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